Allegories of Life | Page 2

pillowed in his bed, till the golden arrows of light flashed over the earth. Day had come, but no chime.
"What can be the matter?" said the anxious mother, as she strained her eyes in the direction of the tower.
What if the old sexton were dead? The thought took all her strength away. If death had taken him first, who would lay her boy tenderly away?
"Is it almost time?"
"Almost, Jimmy, darling. Perhaps the old sexton has slept late."
"Will the bells chime in heaven, mother?"
"Yes, dear, I hope so."
"Will they ring them for me if--if--I--mother! hark! the bells are ringing! The good old sexton has gone to the church at last!"
The boy's eyes glistened with a strange light. In vain the mother listened. No sound came to her ears. All was still as death.
"Oh, how beautiful they sing!" he said, and fell back and died.
Other chimes fell on his ear, sweeter far than the bells of St. Auburn.
For more than an hour the old sexton had been working at the ropes in vain. No sound come forth from either bell.
"What can be the matter?" he exclaimed, nervously. "For seven long years they have not failed to ring out their tones. I'll try once more." And he did so, vigorously.
Just then the figure of a man stood in the doorway. It was the owner of the chime. He had gone to the sexton's house, not hearing the bells at the usual hour, thinking he had overslept; and, not finding him, had sought him at the church.
He tried the ropes himself, but with no more success than the sexton.
"What can it mean?" he said, as he turned sorrowfully away.
It was a sad Christmas in the pleasant valley. To have those sweet sounds missing, and on such a day,--it was a loss to all, and an omen of ill to many.
The next day, workmen were sent to the tower to examine the bells. No defect was perceptible. They were sound and whole, and no mischief-making lad, as some had suggested, had stolen their tongues.
The bells were taken down and carried to a distant city to be recast.
"There! didn't I tell you we should see the world?" said their leader, after they were packed and on their way.
"I don't think we are seeing much of it now, in this dark box," answered one of the bells.
"Wait till we are at our journey's end. We are in a transition state now. Haven't I listened to the old pastor many a time, and heard him say those very words? I could not comprehend them then, but I can now. Oh, how delightful it is to have the prospect of some change before us!" Thus the old bell chatted to the journey's end, while the other bells had but little to say.
Three days later they were at the end of their long ride, and placed, one by one, in a fiery furnace. Instead of murmurs now, their groans filled the air.
"Oh, for one moment's rest from the heat and the hammer! Oh, that we were all at the sweet vale of St. Auburn!" said the leader of all their sorrow.
"How sweetly would we sing!" echoed all.
"It's a terrible thing to be recast!" sighed the deepest-toned bell; and he quivered with fear as they placed him in the furnace.
At last, after much suffering, they were pronounced perfect, and repacked for their return.
The same tone was given to each, but the quality was finer, softer, and richer than before. The workmen knew not why--none but the suffering bells, and the master hand who put them into the furnace of affliction.
They were all hung once more in the tower--wiser and better bells. Never again was heard a murmur of discontent from either because but one tone was its mission. In the moonlight they talk among themselves, of their sad but needful experience, and of the lesson which it taught them,--as we hope it has our reader,--that each must be faithful to the quality or tone which the Master has given us, and which is needful to the rich and full harmonies of life.

II.
THE HEIGHT.
There was once an aged man who lived upon an exceeding high mountain for many years; but, as his strength began to decline, he found the ascent so tedious for his feeble steps that he went into the valley to live.
It was very hard for him to give up the view from its lofty height of the sun which sank so peacefully to rest. Long before the sleepers in the valley awoke, he was watching the golden orb as it broke through the mists and flung its beauties over the hills.
"This must be my last day upon the mountain top," he said. "The little strength which is left me I must devote to the culture of fruit and flowers